


Possibly Velociraptors

by OctoberSpirit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: And Cecil is Becoming More and More Aware of That Fact Over Time, And That is Mildly Hilarious, Based on a Tumblr Post, Boyfriends, Carlos Totally Records and Memorizes Cecil's Broadcasts, Cecil is Mostly Human, Certain Elements of My Headcanon in Which, Episode Related, Episode: e018 The Traveler, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Science, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSpirit/pseuds/OctoberSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos is always curious as to what constitutes "normal" in Night Vale. Cecil is a source of endless information. Sometimes, it's the most mundane things that get tangled between one normal and the next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possibly Velociraptors

“Hey, Cecil,” Carlos says, apropos of nothing. “Do you remember the time you made all those birth announcements on the air?”

Cecil looks up from his book, a well-worn, surprisingly uncensored copy of Nabokov’s _Lolita_. His expression suggests an abrupt displacement. Carlos feels vaguely guilty, but curiosity persists. “Which time do you mean?” Cecil asks, one finger holding his spot on the page. “We’ve done it more than once, you know.”

“Last March. Uh, I think. With Cactus June?”

“Champ,” recalls Cecil, after a moment. He butterflies the book on his knee, fixing Carlos with greater attention. “The foreign face and the handsome, but terrible, beard. I remember.”

Carlos clicks his illegal pen, the one Cecil always pretends he can’t see. It’s sort of a compromise: Carlos doesn’t use it to write, and Cecil doesn’t complain when he clicks it. “Right, that’s the one. There were two others, with it?”

“Those I’m afraid I don’t recall.” 

“‘Tak Wallaby’s wife, Herschel, has given birth to an adult man’s detached hand, which they have named Meghan,’” Carlos rattles off immediately. His voice is his own, but the inflection is unmistakably Cecil’s, and it registers on Cecil’s face. Carlos hurries on, embarrassed. “And ‘the black dauphin has given birth to a smooth metallic pellet of astonishing density.’ And then Champ.”

“Ah,” says Cecil. “Yes, I remember.” He looks like he’s about to continue, and the shape of his eyes suggests territory Carlos would rather avoid, so he rushes into his line of questioning with all the grace of a water buffalo.

“Is that sort of thing…is that _normal_ here?”

Cecil blinks, derailed. “You mean birth announcements? Well, granted, I don’t do them all the time, but—”

“No,” says Carlos, “I mean…I mean people giving birth to metallic pellets and detached hands. Does that happen a lot? That you know of?”

Cecil tilts his head down as he starts to answer, lips half-shaping words, then backing out before his voice can catch up. Both hands take hold of the book on his knee, worrying the paperback cover instead. His eyebrows draw together. “Carlos,” Cecil finally says. “I thought…I mean, you _are_ a scientist. I assumed you knew.” He clears his throat, eyes darting as though in search of his microphone; when spectacularly uncomfortable, Cecil has a tendency to hunker down within his radio persona. “When a man and a woman, or a similarly sexually compatible pair—”

“Whoa, no, hey, that’s not what I meant.”

“Thank _goodness_ ,” Cecil sighs, flopping back on the couch. He pitches back into his everyday tones. “I sooo did not want to give you that speech. I’m not even sure my registration’s still valid.”

Carlos runs both hands through his hair, which—as always—makes Cecil’s voice wobble. “There are a couple minor details I want to come back to, there. But what I meant was, where I’m from, you can pretty much just expect a baby. Do people not always have babies here?”

Cecil’s face rearranges itself minutely, from relieved to scandalized in less than a second. “That can’t be right. I mean, that seems pretty irresponsible, Carlos.”

“Does it?”

“Well, yes! Any two people off the street can dance the horizontal tango and just _expect_ a baby? Can you imagine?”

“I,” Carlos starts, then shakes his head. “Well, I mean, that’s how my aunt got my cousin.”

Cecil gapes. “Does that happen _a lot?"_

“We’re getting off-topic,” Carlos says. It’s best to cut him off before he scripts an editorial. “I’ve just never heard of people birthing metallic pellets or severed hands before. Not until I came to Night Vale. Everywhere else, it’s pretty much babies.” He clicks the pen a few more times. “But it’s common here? Pellets and hands and bearded kids?”

“Champ was a weirdo. They don’t usually have beards.”

Carlos makes a mental note. “But the other things, yes?”

Cecil shrugs. “Pretty standard. You could try some science if you want, but I’d be _really_ careful to get written permission. Mothers-to-be are notorious bloodsuckers. Eight out of ten have to be locked up in their third trimester.”

“I see,” Carlos says. Once again, Cecil’s spawning more questions than answers. “I’ll have to discuss it with my team. But I’ll keep that in mind. The, uh, pregnant bloodsuckers.”

“Good,” Cecil says, removing his glasses. Carlos pointedly averts his gaze until Cecil has finished wiping the lenses; once was enough to teach him his lesson. “You know I worry when you take needless risks.” He gives a fond sound. “My brave, brilliant scientist.”

“Shameless flatterer,” Carlos mutters. His face heats up; he clicks the pen faster. “If I can get into city records, I can work out some percentages, establish the parameters of a ‘normal’ delivery versus something Night Valeians deem ‘abnormal’…”

“Sounds lovely, dear,” Cecil says, settling back into his corner of the couch. He draws up his knees and props open his book, having identified the departure from civilian-friendly conversation. “Just make sure you keep up with the paperwork this time. I’m still low on tamarind until the next shipment.”

“Uh-huh,” mumbles Carlos, online already. His laptop screen flickers unknowable colors as he navigates the city’s official website. Well on his way into science mode, he misses most of what Cecil is saying, but he doesn’t quite manage to miss the last sentence. His brain turns immediately, arctically numb.

“I guess,” Cecil murmurs, turning a page, “I’ll just keep in mind that we’ll have to adopt.”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no idea whether or not water buffaloes are graceful, but the metaphor sounded great in my head.
> 
> The real question is, when Cecil says "dance the horizontal tango," is that metaphor as well, or Night Valeian literalism? _You make the call._
> 
> This was inspired by a tumblr post that was perfectly hilarious on its own, and somehow more so when applied to Night Vale: http://octoberspirit.tumblr.com/post/63358985771/i-love-the-term-were-expecting-when-talking-about
> 
> (And octoberspirit.tumblr.com is my page, if you care to tumbl with me.) (That one was definitely not a metaphor.)


End file.
